


Menin Aeide Thea

by Elenchus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:05:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenchus/pseuds/Elenchus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the pairing challenge prompt: handcuffed together</p><p>"Enjolras clenched his teeth in frustration. He was in Grantaire’s debt, he supposed; it was he who had caught the attention of the police, and Grantaire who had arrived on the scene just in time to divert the police’s attentions away from charges of sedition. Grantaire had swung his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder like an old friend, and patted him genially on the chest while telling the officer that Enjolras got to raving in his cups. He’d laughed and joked and stumbled around and made a convincing enough drunk for the both of them.</p><p>Of course, if Grantaire hadn’t tried to assault said officer, they might have gotten off without any charges at all. That fact made Enjolras feel a little less indebted to him. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Menin Aeide Thea

_The rights of the people cannot be conferred, for they are present by nature, and natural to man. The rights of the people cannot be taken away; though tyrants seek abrogate them, they can never do so lawfully. Law without respect for the natural rights of man is itself violence, and violence must…violence must…_

It was impossible to think clearly with the sound of Grantaire’s raucous singing practically in his ear. It had been bad enough when Grantaire had begun, ostensibly intent on working through every drinking song he knew, but the texts had grown progressively bawdier with every song, and even Enjolras was finding it difficult to ignore the current level of filth.

He clenched his teeth in frustration. He was in Grantaire’s debt, he supposed; it was he who had caught the attention of the police, and Grantaire who had arrived on the scene just in time to divert the police’s attentions away from charges of sedition. Grantaire had swung his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder like an old friend, and patted him genially on the chest while telling the officer that Enjolras got to raving in his cups. He’d laughed and joked and stumbled around and made a convincing enough drunk for the both of them.

Of course, if Grantaire hadn’t tried to _assault_ said officer, they might have gotten off without any charges at all. That fact made Enjolras feel a little less indebted to him. The policeman had made some crude joke about Enjolras and his “pretty face” – and old and tired line, but one Enjolras was accustomed to ignoring – and Grantaire’s hand on Enjolras shoulder had gone stiff for a moment. Then he’d swung at his interlocutor – swung and missed, thanks be to God, and wound up facedown on the ground from his own momentum. The policeman had laughed at that too, and turned Grantaire over with his foot before throwing them both in a cell for the night.

The man had probably through it the height of wit to cuff them together before he left them. It served no purpose but to give their assailant the chance for a few more rough jokes. At least the cells were all but empty save for them. It might almost have been peaceful, if not for Grantaire’s presence. Chained to him as he was, Enjolras couldn’t even retreat to a far corner of the cell to seek peace in his thoughts.

_Violence must be met with a force it cannot overcome, and to take up arms against a tyrant is not violence but the resistance of violence. Man’s nature is peace, and to deny that nature by-_

It was no good. He simply couldn’t think. He schooled himself to composure. _Grantaire, would you grant me a moment’s silence? I’m trying to put our time to productive use._

“Grantaire, would you be quiet? One of us ought to be useful.”

Damn. Somehow he never said quite what he meant to around Grantaire. It was one of the many things Enjolras found irritating about him.

Grantaire did stop singing though, which was a blessing. “And how may I be of use, dear general? I rather thought I’d played out my part. Although,” he added with a too-wide grin, “if our new friend returns, I’d rather he hear my signing than your muttering.”

Enjolras hadn’t thought of that. It was distressing that Grantaire had. “Was I speaking my thoughts aloud?”

“Indeed. You always do.” Grantaire affected a pensive pose and spoke in a parody of the orator’s tone. “Man’s nature is peace, but the gilded coverings of inequity have strangled the nature of the rich and ravaged that of the poor; the nation must be washed in blood before the true brilliance of his soul may shine again – or suchlike, I’m afraid you hadn’t gotten there yet.”

Enjolras took a deep breath to calm his anger – at himself for his lack of control, and at Grantaire for his- his _everything_. For standing beside him yet making a mockery of all that truly mattered. “Is it not true? And being true, should I be ashamed to say it?”

“No, not you. Never you. Shame herself would hardly dare to touch you. But is it shameful to seek a more appreciative audience? I think not.”

Enjolras considered how to respond to that – was it more mockery, or a fair point? Or both? – but Grantaire was not done declaiming. “Menin aeide thea; sing, Oh goddess, the wrath of Enjolras, son of Marianne, that brought countless ills upon the tyrants. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a guardsman did it yield a prey to dogs-”

“Enough,” said Enjolras sharply. Grantaire looked at him curiously, and Enjolras felt a sudden embarrassment for his discomfort. Why should Grantaire have the power to drive him to fear or shame? “I never cared for Homer,” he added, hoping that would be explanation enough. His schoolroom memories were rarely pleasant, and even as a child the study of the ancients had struck him as one of the most useless pursuits among a host of moneyed affectations. Where was Homer’s republic? And where the fairness in Plato’s? Spates of republicanism had worn down into tyranny while men like Grantaire laughed and drank and didn’t lift a finger to protect their natural rights.

The thought was unfair – Grantaire had hardly brought about the fall of the French republic, much less the Roman one – but Enjolras was not feeling particularly charitable.

Grantaire awkwardly patted Enjolras’ cuffed hand with his own. “Of course you didn’t, oh leader of men; you’re made for the doing of deeds, not the singing of them. Achilles, not Odysseus.”

“Odysseus took Troy,” Enjolras pointed out. He remembered that much. “After Achilles was dead.”

“Just so, just so,” Grantaire nodded, as though Enjolras had offered agreement rather than critique. No doubt the man saw him thus; a doomed and petulant fool fighting to achieve what wiser heads would eventually effect with him gone. Enjolras felt his face moving towards a pout and schooled it to stillness as he feebly struck back.

“And what role do you play then? A Homer, chronicling our bloody failures and winning fame from our sorrows?”

Grantaire gave a crooked smile. “Oh no, beloved captain. I would take the stage as Great-Hearted Patroclus, ever the coda to your name and glory.” He made a vague half-bow, or as much of the suggestion of one as his bound hand allowed him.

Patroclus, who had loved Achilles and died fighting his battles. Died _being_ him, because Achilles had failed his own duties. A shudder ran through Enjolras that he knew Grantaire could not help but feel. “I don’t recall that name,” he said curtly. “As I said, I never cared to study Homer.”

If Grantaire heard his lie, he had the grace for once not to comment on it. He simply nodded and smiled again. “Of course, of course. But you will remember me, won’t you, when I fall down wearing your colors? Only a little, every now and then, that’s all. It’s not much to ask, even for not much of a man.”

Enjolras sucked in a breath, and looked anywhere but at Grantaire’s placid smile and warm eyes. Grantaire was drunk, that was all, drunk as always and raving. Drink did not give a man the gift of prophecy, no matter how certain he sounded. All that wine conferred was a cynical outlook and a vexing persistence.

He was saved having to find an answer by Grantaire bursting once again into song. This time, he did not interrupt.


End file.
